


third degree love crimes

by anticute



Category: The Folk of the Air - Holly Black
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24577729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anticute/pseuds/anticute
Summary: Drabbles (?) from the land of misfit words, that don't really stand as their own individual fics. Jurdan-centric; mainly to do with how their actions have consequences, and their various elephants in the room. And whatever else that ends up here.
Relationships: Jude Duarte/Cardan Greenbriar
Kudos: 21





	third degree love crimes

**Author's Note:**

> so my brother’s been playing a tower defense game, ‘kingdom rush’ - which has all over it fae themes. which reminded me of cardan novella. and the fact that i still have a bunch of fanmix wips, and an ever-growing list of fic ideas.
> 
> from said list of fic ideas/land of misfit words, this is a series of drabbles….? if one squints real hard? that i’d flesh out if i 1) cared to; 2) had energy; 3) had talent. yeah that thing. what is it? can i eat it? 
> 
> the title comes from the song, third degree love crimes by lili kendall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really want to write jude - and i do have something in the works, but i'm...hesistant over certain things in it. honestly, cardan's suffering just flows out more. and it's infinitely entertaining.

The fortnight after Jude’s been exiled, Cardan wakes up in the early, liminal hours just before dusk. Quite simply, he hasn’t been sleeping well - in between of all the actual ruling he is now tasked with (by his own doing), and, well, Particular Emotions.

He lays there with closed eyes, as one arm stretches out, and absently between his knuckles, repeatedly catches and releases the silk corner of the empty pillow beside him. His other forearm is flat against his chest, which rises and falls with each exhalation, inhalation, exhalation. As he properly wakes up, the thoughts percolate, and he lets himself think, _‘wife’._ It is thought, with the same weight of the sentiment _‘fuck.’_

(The watchword is that he lets himself. Because he has deliberately not been thinking about her. Again, in between of all the actual ruling and all.)

Many moonrises later, Cardan has dreamt an Improbability.

The dream is vaguely set in a park, and he is amongst others that share the same mortal coil that is Jude’s kind.

She, he, are sat beside each other on an overly pristine, nondescript bench, and if that wasn’t enough to suggest this was a dream - their view is of a duck pond, a singular row of ducklings following their mother.

It is mundane, it is ordinary, and it is delightful.

But this Jude, this Dream Jude knows she is a Dream Jude, and he knows it well. They exchange words - acerbic, unkind, desperate - and then, she has this awful, mocking smile that blesses her face, as she leans over to kiss (brand) his cheek.

Before her lips fall, the dream lifts and he wakes.

He does not know entirely if he wakes of his own volition, or wakes up naturally. But he is a fool, and he closes his eyes and wills himself to sleep, to return and continue the dream, because he’s starting to forget her in a tactile sense. The few and far between kisses that he managed from her, different from the other kisses _shared_ with her - the latter being a more limited experience.

(Memories fade, but emotions linger. Thunder, moreso, in his head, as his heart wants, wants.)

The Bomb arrives, during his second attempt.

Time keeps at it. And, eventually, Cardan must have his bedsheets changed. He’s unsure what to do with the emotions that come with that, the appetite that simultaneously wanes and grows.

So, he writes.


End file.
